


The Score of London

by westingwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westingwood/pseuds/westingwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody here is immune from the reaches of the highest order of crime, and it's not Jim. Even he has a target placed upon his head, and needless to say, Sherlock does as well.<br/>=====================================================<br/>(aka the crime ring AU everyone was wondering about. i might be changing the warnings later on)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming; I hope you all enjoy the ride. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **Part One**   
>  _21 Gun Salute_   
> 

_When you dance with the devil, you wait for the song to stop._

=== === === ===  
J  
=== === === ===

_No._

_Nothing is happening anymore-_

_No. There is always something, or have you forgotten that already? Tell yourself that lie enough times and it should become truth soon enough._

_Okay then, wake up and get back into the cycle of normativity. Do the staying that you hate so much._ _Open. Your. Eyes._

He opens his eyes, one at a time, and blinks through the brightness until everything comes into focus. For a single fleeting second, he feels calm. Groggy and freshly-woken, yes, but calm. Nothing to bother him. Then his eyes settle on the top right compartment of the dresser, and reality snaps back into place, leaving Jim Moriarty with the increasingly familiar sensation of frustration. And boredom. Always boredom, it seems. Hopefully it would never go quite so far as to have to resort to the final contingency, he has to tell himself on a day-to-day basis, even now. But the temptation is always there, living in his skull.

He sits up in the bed and looks around his hotel room. It's not exactly as luxurious as he is used to - forty seven is pretty far off from sixty two; he likes being high up - with his endless options, but he was in absolutely no mood to either argue with, manipulate, or threaten hotel staff. His patience truly was wearing thin.

_Four days. Four. Fucking. Days._

His visit here had mainly been for personal reasons, consisting of "correcting" historical records that he took high offense to. Art history in Paris should _not_ be so idiotically incorrect, but it was, and something had to be done about it. Again, purely out of the boredom that Jim is always experiencing. It really is a part of him; he cannot recall a time at which it was not. And then, right as he was strolling out of the Louvre, he got news that seven of his men got picked off while carrying highly sensitive information. True, nothing physically revealing could be found on their persons, and they never found out exactly for whom they were carrying (or what, for that matter), but it would still be rather _conspicuous_ if seven recently-deceased bodies went floating down the River Seine. Again, Jim's eyes flicker over the dresser, imagining what it would feel like, imagining the means to a blissfully obtained end.

He is still locked in these alluring daydreams when, for the second time this morning, he is snapped back to reality, this time by an annoyingly chirpy tune - a tune that reminds him of why he needs to stick around. He doesn’t answer it right away, though. Instead, he lets the first few bars run out, cracking a smile when the song comes to a certain line. He himself has perfected the art of _looking the other way._

And on comes the mask of nonchalance as he picks the phone off of the nightstand. He is not sure himself where his disguises and acts come from, but it's better not to start dropping his guard now-

_“So, no stiffs on the news, then? Did your job well.”_

_Irene._ He has a terrible habit of not checking his caller ID. Jim was expecting to have to play careless and even a little bit upbeat, but now he drops the upbeat part. After all, she really does know how to get to the point, that one. “I think I can dispose of several bodies. Retrieve information.” He pauses for effect. “Does that shock you?”

 _“We wouldn't be talking if it did.”_ On her end, she began tapping. Likely just a nervous habit, but this woman isn't the type to get nervous. Not even when talking to someone as powerful as him, who could end her life and erase her existence with hardly even a finger lifted. Three taps. Code. All of this takes less than a second to work out, and he starts putting it together. “Why-”

_“Come on, work all the time? How are you not dead by now?”_

The tapping has continued; three and a half lines of Morse code were already decoded in his head. “I know I’m wanted back, no need to tip-tap-tip it out.” The nonchalance is now overlaid with annoyance, or has the nonchalance disappeared? Again, he thinks to himself, even he cannot heads or tails of his multiple masks.

 _"You didn’t let me finish.”_ Clipped and...cautious? He can almost see Irene walking around her bedroom, closing unseen windows, running unseen radiators, turning on unseen music - _Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture? Odd for her_ \- Loud. And a command - a single “Leave.” A pair of feet can barely be heard scuttling out the door. The lock clicks in place, and the cannons start to fire.

_“He’s back in London. He’s back in London and you need to fix that.”_

“Who’s asking?”

She gives a half-puff laugh. _“Oh, just about everyone.”_ The last cannon goes off and Irene is quiet. It’s what tips Jim off to the name, the fact that she's not willing to say it out loud, and it takes everything he has not to hang up the phone right then.

“Five hours. And you’d better be absolutely sure you’re right about this.”

He hangs up the phone before Irene can add more and tosses it onto the far end of the bed.

Six minutes of silence. That’s his personal record this month, and he wishes it had been less. He wishes Irene had called him upon the second of his waking.

He glances at the dresser again. _Wrong day to die._

 

 

=== === === ===  
S  
=== === === ===

It’s a few hours after sunrise. He knows that much from laying on the couch all night, so he would take the liberty to say that it is currently nine ‘o’ clock, maybe eight. He knows he has to make several errand runs for several different clients. He knows his supplies are running low – surely this means another stop-in with Victor. He also knows that, while still blurry around the edges, the world around him has come back into its proper focus. _It’s about time_ , he is telling himself. It does no good to be on a high when someone is on their way up at this very moment.

As Sherlock is getting to his feet, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There’s a spot of blood on his face, but given what sort of states Hudson has seen him in, it does not require his immediate attention. He does, however, take the time to walk to the kitchen and pour himself a glass of water. He’s going to need it if what Victor told him is right-

Four sharp knocks on the door pierce the quiet of the flat. He sets the glass on the counter and goes to unlock the door. A young man, nervous and fidgety, shuffles his way inside.

“Thank you, sir.” Nervous, definitely. “Mister Holmes, right?” _Flitting eyes about…sneaking out…avoiding?_ “Or did-did he send me to the wrong-“

“No, I assure you, you’re where you need to be.” _Anxiety disorder – unchecked?_ “I assume it was Victor who sent you.” He motions for the man to sit in the fluffy chair on the other side of the room; it is vacant, after all.

The man looks surprised but nods, in a rather choppy way. _Unchecked for sure._ “Yes, Trevor sent me. Said you could help me get out of here?” He sits, and begins twisting a previously-unnoticed ring on his left hand. _Two years old – tarnished – forgets to take it off-_ It’s halfway off his finger – _it doesn’t fit properly, limited means_ and he keeps hiking it up to the base of his palm. _Unhappy marriage, planning to leave-_

To Sherlock, the decision is immediate.

“Not interested in a marital spat. Boring.” The man simply blinks, confused. “Take what’s yours and leave for the Scots. Everyone does it. Good day.” He begins to point to the door when the man shifts his collar nervous tic and a purplish-blue mark is revealed, stretching along the side of his neck. It re-captures Sherlock's attention in an instant.

“Abusive wife, this is new. _Oh,_ this is interesting.”

“Hey!” The indignant cry fell upon over-excited ears as Sherlock stood up. “How did you-she doesn’t-“

_Island? De-stress, yes. Island._

“Shirt collar down. Marks are pretty clear still, your attempt to hide it. Scratches on the end of the mark; not many men have fingernails sharp enough to leave marks while hitting someone. There’s a plane leaving for Fiji in forty-eight hours; it can take you to Micronesia from there. Victor can get a speed order from Jackson. Wallet photo?” He sticks his hand out towards the man, who is so confused that even the fidgeting has stopped.

He hands over his I.D. instead, and pauses. “How do you do all this?”

“Not important.” He takes the card in one hand and takes his phone out of his pocket with the other. There are three missed calls; one from Victor dated two minutes ago and two from Irene. _Later,_ he decides as he taps the Victor notification.

He picks up almost immediately. Sherlock starts before Victor can cut in. “His name is Alex King. January 5th, 1984. Forty-eight hour order.”

_“Jackson’s missing. Sherlock-“_

“Best guess is he’s stuck drugged up somewhere. Wouldn’t be the first time. You can do it then?” Behind Sherlock, Alex raises his eyebrows in interest.

_“Yes, but-“_

“Oh, and stop telling people to call me Mister Holmes. Bye-bye.” He hangs up before Victor can add any more, and turns back to Alex. “Anyways, island.”

“What do you mean, _‘You can do it then?’ He’s not going to do it?”_

Sherlock smiles, a creepy, too-wide one that puts everyone off. In this case, the effect is intentional. “Victor’s taking over your info from here. Two days, same time. Just be sure to place your thumb over the left-hand side. Good day.” He snaps a shot of the I.D., and hands it back to Alex.

“But…the printing-“

At that moment, a notification pops up on Sherlock’s phone. It’s a text from Victor, which he nearly ignores, except there’s a line of all-caps that catches his eye. Two words.

“Excuse me? Mister Holmes? _Excuse me?”_

Sherlock barely hears Alex but does point him out the door. “Good day,” he says again, not particularly focused on anything. The man shuffles out the door in the same way that he did before, leaving the door open.

He doesn’t care. Hudson will come around and close it soon enough. He's glad to find that the blurriness around the edges of his vision have finally gone away - there are far more important things to think about now.


	2. Chapter 2

=== === === ===

_S_

=== === === ===

“It was supposed to be another month before he was back.” Sherlock is saying this with a cup of coffee untouched on the table.

Victor gives a half-laugh. “Well, he’s back. Nothing we can do now. The ID?”  

Sherlock takes it out of his pocket and hands it to Victor. There’s a hum in the background that sets Sherlock on edge, but it also gives him something to do. It's something else to focus on other than the coffee, the situation, Victor, _anything._ It’snothing personal towards anybody – he holds a rather burning vendetta against the day after a high. “Him coming back so soon - it’s throwing everybody into chaos. You know it.”

“Tell me something I don’t. Give me a break.” _He’s snippy today – something’s happened…_ “Hmm. Interesting name for a bloke.” Victor tilts the I.D. around, examining it from several different angles. “He got it before the new seal, good. That would be a pain in the arse to get around in a day.” _Shaky too? Understandable considering who’s back; rumours starting already?_

The bookstore is picking up steam now. It’s been two hours after Alex - _how is that an interesting name-_ left Sherlock’s flat in a daze of confusion and anticipation. Mostly confusion.

They all do that.

“Cut straight to it, then. You’re not on the list, are you?”

Sherlock still hasn’t eaten any of the food on the table. “I’m not on his list.” Casual. _Nothing is wrong._

“Not yet.” Victor says this around a bite of a donut. Unlike Sherlock, he _is_ eating. “You keep this up; I give it three months before he sets his eye on you.”

 _Interesting. He knows what’s going on._ “How’d you get mixed up with him?”

“High-profile client. Wanted Malaysia – was dead set on it actually. I didn’t know he was on the list until he came knocking on my door.” He finishes his donut and taps the ID on the table. “And I’m putting that mildly, knocking on my door.” _Slight recoil – shiver? Something more? Repressing memories._

_He knows more than he’s letting on._

“What are you saying, Victor?” Still a straight face. Best not to look like you’re shaking in your boots, or worse, _fascinated._ People hate that so much and he is not entirely sure why. He never will be.

“I’m saying, lay low, Sherlock. You’re about to get in above your head if you keep up.” He’s looking straight at Sherlock’s face now.

“Not possible. Boring.”

Victor cracks a smile. “Understood. At least I tried.” He slips the ID in his pocket and picks up the coffee, still untouched and still hot. “I’ll drop it at your flat, you’ll end up forgetting again. Take care.”

“Probably.” There’s not much room in his head for a kind return of words now. He’s started the usual cycle of random detail – like how the woman in the line next to him is wearing clothes well below her means, or how her son is dressed a little too well. _Spoiled for sure. Sinks her whole life into his. Spoiled to the core._

“Oh, forget what I said before. I give it three _weeks_ before he starts tracking after you.” Victor’s face is still smiling, but his eyes have lost the crinkles that go with happiness. _Not completely serious – trying to soothe the punch…_ “Oh, picked this up. You might like it.” He slides a book onto the table with his free hand before turning to leave. “You weren’t going to drink it anyway.”

“Good to know.” Sherlock is alone now, trying to focus on the issue at hand, but still coming back to the child. How his mother is so terribly doting to someone who is so clearly rotten.

  
_=== === === ===_

_J_

_=== === === ===_

“Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have told you.”

Jim is on the white couch, trying not to focus on the problem at hand. _Anything_ but the problem at hand, really. Maybe how Irene’s got her eyebrows knitted together very loosely, maybe the way that she’s trying to figure out why her flat was his first stop in London, or maybe the way she’s trying to figure out why he still has his driver outside.

_A phone call probably would have done the job, James._

_I need to talk to her myself. Give me **one** break. One._

_Break? Try being funnier next time and maybe._

He’s still sprawled out on the couch, not bothering to put his feet down. Irene won’t mind; after all, plenty of people have been in here with far worse than their feet on the couch. “Why’d he come back so early? He was supposed to be gone for-“

“-another month, yes. I was about to put out the call for his head.” Irene comes back in the room carrying a fresh cup of tea, which she sips on absently. Jim’s is nonexistent. She knows perfectly well to keep it that way too, given the moment.

“Ambitious. Know that you’d end up floating in the Seine right along with the bastards that he put there, though.”

Irene sits down and twists her face a bit, eyebrows still scrunched slightly. “Ooh, _snippy_. You know he put them there?”

“Obvious to anyone with a brain.”

Silence. Irene’s flat is comforting, if such a word can be used. The buzz of activity along the street can hardly be heard from inside, and everything is lit up to a designer’s standard. It calms Jim down, for reasons even he is capable of telling himself.

It feels like home.

_It’s where he would like to be right about now._

“What do you do about it?”

“Hm?” Jim has been lost in his thoughts again. Irene supposes he must have been thinking about different ways to get through his power complex, although the correct train of thought is more along the lines of ‘get around.’

_There’s no way out of it._

“What are you going to do about it?” She’s leaning forward in her seat now, fixing her gaze straight at his face.

“Nothing, Irene.” He sighs and rubs his fingers in the space between his eyebrows, the way he does when something is being annoyingly persistent. “ I do nothing. You do nothing. Everyone was running rampant for the past half year and he comes back a month early. Nobody does anything.” He looks up for a second, just to drive the point home. “Ordering a hit on him is useless, to say the least.”

“Give a girl credit.” She raises the cup to her lips and takes another sip.

“I do. Just offering _adviiice_.” He draws out the word, maybe to make Irene lay off a bit, or maybe to distract himself a bit more. Either way, it’s still just another disguise.

“So what do you actually need, Jim?” She’s still leant forward. “You don’t come here with a car full of luggage and a waiting driver to offer advice.”

The spot between his eyes actually hurts now, just underneath the skin, but he drops his hand and leaves it alone. It’s not her that’s the problem. “He knows my network inside and out. The minute I try to do anything he can shut it down before five minutes have passed. He can, and he doesn’t.”

The knit between her eyebrows deepen. It must disturb her too. “You need people outside your own network is what you’re saying, I never thought you’d get to that!” Irene’s fucking around with him now. _As per usual_ , he’s thinking. It injects a little bit of cheer back into him, even though she often reminds him of pressing matters. It’s well worth the cost. “I thought you said you’re not going to do anything?”

“Anything _rash._ Come on, Irene. I still need to maintain some sort of order. I already lost a good bit back in-“

She waves her free hand and makes the _stop_ sign. “Say no more. Really, the sentiment isn’t like you when you talk about it. You need people outside your own grounds to get things back up again. I think I can help you.”

“You don’t have a network.” He is still sorely tempted to rub that spot in between his eyebrows, but she’ll think it’s her that’s the problem. Everyone does when he does that.

“I have Kate.” A smile.

Jim pretends to ignore her and goes on. “Tell me this isn’t someone else’s network. Lie to me and tell me it isn’t.”

She laughs, a real, bright laugh. “Of course! What else in this city? He knows loads of people that you probably don’t. He’s in the business of forgery, so to speak.”

 _Not again._ “Documents? There’s thirty-two of them in my circle alo-“ He’s starting to sound irritated now; the first time since he got there.

She is very quick to cut across his sentence. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything like him. Rather sexy, that one.”

_Seriously, Irene?_

_There’s something to be done here, not someONE._

_Interesting idea._

_Shut up._

“Focus? I’m pretty sure you know I prefer not to be dead in an alley somewhere.”

_The idea is rather nice, admit it._

_Shut up._

_Get some._

_Shut. Up._

She sips on her tea again and relaxes her face, feigning innocence. “I tried. But he does have a rather useful network. It gets stuff done.”

Jim gets up from his seat now, taking care to rebutton his jacket. “Where is he?”

“Right now? It’s hard to say; that man’s all over the place. Try-“  
  
He’s already moving out the door, leaving Irene alone with her tea. “Text me.” He takes care to shut the door on his way out, though. Best not let in a draft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slowness; we'll get somewhere interesting very very soon :3 I do hope you enjoy this. After all, what's the point if you don't?


	3. Chapter 3

_=== === === ===_

J

_=== === === ===_

_This is it?_

Jim knows the place – he’d be a madman not to - but when Irene made such a giant fuss about him ( _“He’s very good at what he does, he’s not like the others” - why doesn't she just take him right now?_ ), you would think such a person would be living in a less…homely place.

As it is, there is only one set of windows that are lit up, and it’s the set right above the cafe. Jim shifts his sunglasses just a little, to block out the morning light filtering over everything, and he can just barely make out a shape moving inside the window. A very tall shape, by the look of it.

At the same time, a car pulls up to the curb behind his driver and a man gets out. He looks like he is about to fall down and have a panic attack, whipping his head about and trying to hurry _, oh wait_ , to the very same flat that Jim is going to now. He’s knocking on the door, and a few seconds later, a little old lady invites him inside, all-smiles.

_What am I getting myself into?_

_Knock, knock_. The new driver, Roberto, is rolling down the window. “Is it going to be a while? I can shut it down if you want.”

“Ah, it’ll only be a few minutes. Keep it running.” He’s waving his hand absently, and Roberto rolls the window back up. He removes his sunglasses and crosses the street, thinking about how he’ll have hell to pay if he can’t deliver. Rather, he’ll have to pay hell. Either way, hell is coming to meet him.

Jim doesn't even lift his hand to the door knocker before the old woman is opening the door again, ready and welcome for his arrival.

“Oh, hello dear. You’re the one Irene told me to look out for. Would you like some tea?”

_She’s polite. That’s refreshing._

“Yes, that sounds wonderful.” Jim doesn't quite smile, but he’s nearly there. Not many people bother with manners or niceties anymore; even more rarely doing so with happiness.

She’s smiling again. _All smiles_ , but he can tell straight away that that’s not always the case. “Ooh, you’re nice. I like you already.” A hand pointing up the stairs. “Just up here on the next flight, dear. He has someone up there right now; do you want to-“

No sooner have the words left her mouth than the same man comes down, a little relieved but still obviously shaken. He’s pushing down the stairs; past Jim and past the old lady, and then out the door.

Jim has been watching the man leave, but turns his attention back to the landlady - _she’s got that air about her._ “Does that happen a lot?”

Her face turns up, not in a grimace but more in sadness, like it’s a mere fact. “Oh, all the time…what’s your name?”

“Jim.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jim.” She’s reaching for his hand, and he offers his in a firm shake. “Miss Hudson. You’re a sweetheart, you are.”

 _Say thank you._ “Thank you, Miss Hudson.” He’s pointing up the stairs now. “You said the next flight?”

“Yes. Good luck.”

 _I like her._ He’s climbing up the stairs now, wondering what kind of man this is; wondering if he’ll even get done what he needs to get done. In the back of his head, he’s wondering about the old lady; how she seemed so nice. Maybe it puts the guy’s clients at ease, or maybe it puts herself at ease. He’s ready and willing to say that it’s the latter, more likely than not. Or maybe she’s worried about _him_. The same person everybody who has ever done as much as lifted a car in this city is worried about.

The door is already open when he reaches the top of the stairs, but he still takes the time to knock. A disinterested “come in” is given back to him.

He steps inside the flat and looks around.  It’s a bit dingy and _definitely_ in need of redecoration – the wallpaper alone makes him want to burn the place down to a crisp – but everything is more or less organized into their seemingly proper places. It’s the flat of a man who has other things on his mind, and Jim knows that intimately well.

“Interesting.” He lets his thoughts slip out loud; an action he has not been known for since primary. Indeed; everything is interesting, especially the person standing in the window. He’s tall and a bit lanky, with the cheekbones that a person would kill to have. He seems to have been standing there for a while. There are other things Jim’s picking up on now – _he’s analyzing._ He’s paying _attention_ to the room _._

_Anyone can do that, Jim._

“What do you need?” He’s talking to Jim, but he hasn't turned around yet.

“Hmm?” He’s not sure he processed that correctly.

“From my network. What do you need?” He _still_ hasn't turned around.

Now _that’s_ got his attention nice and proper. He hasn't mentioned anything about needing the network at all, nor would Irene would have told him. She would only tell him the barest of details.

“So you’re the famous James Moriarty.” He’s drawing out the last name; it sounds so good coming from him, and the height difference is certainly not helping Jim to focus.

_Irene was certainly right about the sexy part._

_She wouldn't have given him my name. He knows._

_Anyone with half a brain and an ID printer knows your name, Jim._

_Try him a bit. It can’t hurt._

A ‘Yes’ isn't good enough. He already knows the answer will be in the affirmative, and that it would do nothing to help him along. He takes a look around the flat, trying to pick up on something else - anything. Finally, Jim’s eyes land on a shining object next to him - a small, unassuming circle of gold that is lying on the table. He picks it up and turns it around in his hand. “He left this.”

He’s actually looking over now. “Payment. About eight hundred quid, he thinks.”

From his examination, Jim is seeing all the typical signs of unhappiness, anxiety, maybe even abuse – shaky hands don’t result from a shouting match over broken eggs - but something else too…a 24K stamped faintly into the inside of the band. He weighs it in his hand and it feels a bit heavy…

-“he’s wrong; it should be about six-fifty.”

_A ring like this…anywhere from four to seven ounces…that’s over three grand in today’s prices. This man isn't as poor as you think he is._

_Oh, this is brilliant. You come here and pay with a bit of the life that you’re leaving behind. He knows what he’s doing._

Another sidelong look at the man. The ring is forgotten for now. He’s picking up sadness, and a lot of it. _He’s been down that road before._

 _As have you,_ Jim’s reminding himself.

_Tell him about the damned ring._

Jim’s putting the ring down. “He’s looking to get out of a marriage. Abusive to the point of threatening his life. It’s a wonder he didn’t take his own life already.” It’s lacking. “But you already knew that, didn't you?” _Still not enough,_ for now anyway.

His face is totally blank now, and he’s facing Jim head-on.

_I’ve got your attention._

=== === === ===

S

=== === === ===

_He’s clever._

Sherlock knows as much, but when Jim picked up the ring and weighed it, turned it around, and told him everything he already knew…he was able to pick up on the exact magnitude of that pretty fast. And if he’s right, he seriously underestimated the worth of the ring, _and_ the worth of Alex.

And he has that sort of clever air about him. _James Moriarty didn't get his reputation over nothing,_  Sherlock supposes. He always figured that he had to have _some_ sort of cleverness to run an empire as such, but…he reminds him of himself, almost.

That’s not exactly a common occurrence.

 _Tell him something._ He’s been standing in silence for minutes, hours, _days._ No, it’s only been a second or two, but he still can’t find anything sufficient to say.

Sherlock is prepared for a lot of things, but he’s not prepared for _that._

Someone like him.

_Say something about the network. Get to the point._

“Yes, about the network.” He claps his hands together and continues on. “I have to take a guess and say that Ma- _he’s_ giving you troubles too. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised in your position. What is it? Fraud?”

He expected James to look a bit taken aback, but instead he looks right at ease, as if he was expecting this sort of response. _Of course he would be expecting this._

“Oh, here it is.” He digs inside his jacket and pulls out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly into threes. “Tower of London and back before tomorrow morning. It’s a bit of a waiting game but given your people, it’ll be back here soon enough.” He’s looking straight at Sherlock in a very _unsettling_ way, but not in the disturbing sense. He’s analyzing.

_He’s trying to find what makes you tick._

The moment is gone before Sherlock can try to figure out what he was going for, but the intention of covering it up is clear when he, of all things, _winks_ at him. _Nobody_ does that; not even Irene. Irene is too up-front and direct to do such a thing, but apparently James Moriarty is not. _He likes to play around first._

“We’ll be in touch, Sherlock.” A smile to go with the wink. He places the paper down on the table with the ring and turns out the door.

_What was that?_

_Who would flirt with…you?_

_You wanted to say something back._

Sherlock’s still trying to make sense of the situation when his phone rings. He picks it up and Victor’s voice greets him once again.

 _“Victor. Are the papers ready?”_ He’s walking over to the window, and pushes the lace cover aside a bit. He can see James getting into a car on the other side of the street.

 _“Sherlock, it’s Jackson.”_ A pause. _“He’s dead.”_

 _“How?”_ Flirtatious gestures now aside; the new problem has Sherlock’s attention front and centre.

_“He washed up on the river a few hours ago. Bullet hole through the chest.”_

_“That’s about the norm for him. Anything else?”_

Victor’s quiet now. Sherlock can hear him hesitating on the other end. _“A-a rose. A white rose in the entry wound.”_

_Irene’s calling card._

_But she doesn't even take clients’ offers within the UK, nor would she make such a public show._

Sherlock’s talking quickly now. “It’s a setup. He’s driving everyone to ground now. Starting with Irene.”

“Sherlock-“ Victor lowers his voice to a whisper – _“ Why now?”_

_He can’t even figure that out for himself._

_“He’s going to be after us all soon. Magnussen comes for everyone sooner or later.”_ Victor is protesting now, but Sherlock hangs up the phone, and sends out a quick text to the woman outside of Baker Street Station. She’ll come for the paper in a few minutes, and that leaves Sherlock in agitated thought once again. Something keeps coming to the forefront of his brain, though, ever since he watched the car start up and leave down the end of the street.

It dawns on him that James knew his name. Irene didn't tell him that, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **[[END OF PART ONE]]**
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you everyone who was involved in the inspiration and revision of this work - I can try to name them all but then I know for sure that I'll miss someone. I _do_ have to thank Penny and Oliver for being the best betas ever, though. I heart the both of you :3  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you enjoyed. If there's anything I can do to fix anything here, please don't hesitate in telling me so (it's been such a long time since I've written in long format and, needless to say, I am pretty rusty in multi-chapter writing). Anything to make the story better for the people reading it, because it /is/ for you. :3


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